


let’s get it on (and these skinny jeans off)

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Consent, Crushes, Drunkenness, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, Pining, Sort Of, Strip Tease, drunk modern aus are My Brand i guess??, i mean god help him the boy tries, of marshmallow proportions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 22:26:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: In which Jon Snow gets dancey when he’s drunk, and Sansa is his designated driver — and then his concerned, somewhat exasperated, but not-totally-unwilling audience.(title *mostly* from “let’s get it on,” by marvin gaye)





	let’s get it on (and these skinny jeans off)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts).



> a/n: my wip updates are being a pain in the ass so have this instead for rn. and i know i’ve done a fic to this song before but COME ON I CAN’T HELP IT it’s fine
> 
> for vivi, since while we were chatting i made a throwaway comment abt jon giving sansa a bad drunken striptease and then naturally i had to actually write it. it turned a bit more serious than i’d intended but all in all i think that’s a pretty good thing
> 
> (reference to “get outta my dreams, get into my car,” by billy ocean ahead, bc somehow that song is always A L W A Y S stuck in my head and now i pass the curse on to all of you)

A properly smashed Jon Snow is… something else.

Sansa hadn’t even gone out with them tonight — no, it was a _lads’ night_ , Robb and Theon had insisted, and honestly when they say things like that Sansa prefers to opt out, anyway — but she’d agreed to be their on-call designated driver. Because as the always-designated “responsible one,” Sansa knows they’d only forget their address by the time they stumbled into an Uber.

Not that Jon had even made it that far; not even close. It’s hardly ten o’clock before Sansa’s phone chirps incessantly with a string of texts:

 **JON** : Saaaaansaaa!!!

 **THEON** : lmao jon’s wasted

 **ROBB** : Might need you earlier than expected

 **JON** : Sansa thei hink im drunk bht im not!!! i swaer  
I’m fine im fiiiIIINE

 **JON** : You’er more fine tho  
;) ;) ;)  
like WOAH

He’s absolutely _not_ fine. Sansa’s used to her brother’s mates hitting on her every once in awhile — usually Theon, and always as some sort of joke, or to see if he can make Robb burst a blood vessel when he’s eaten the last of the fried shrimp or something — but Jon’s not exactly of that ilk.

 **SANSA** : Alright, big smooth, where am I picking you up?

 **JON** : I’ll tlel you olny if yuo promise youre gonna tkae me home wtih you

 **SANSA** : I will track you down and drag you into the car if I have to.

 **JON** : GET OUT OF MY DREAMS!  
GET INTO MY CAR!

Of course _that_ he manages to spell without any trouble.

Sansa tries Robb next, who tells her they’re up at the Five Kings pool hall. Friday nights are marked down — £2 beers on tap, it’s _mad_ — so she can’t say she’s surprised one of them’s sloshed before ten. She just didn’t think it would be Jon; serious, stoic, only-ever-half-smiles Jon (honestly, she thinks she’s seen his teeth perhaps a grand total of twice in a near-lifetime of knowing him, and even that might be overshooting it a bit).

Jon Snow simply doesn’t get stark raving drunk. That’s Theon’s, sometimes Robb’s, occasionally Arya’s, department.

Sansa wonders if something’s wrong with him. She wonders it all the way back to her flat, where she’s taking Jon only because it’s closer to the Five Kings than his own.

It has nothing to do with the fact that he asks her, so sweetly, _Sansa, can I come home with you?_ and he’s playing with her hair when he does.

That is completely irrelevant to her very responsible, entirely clear-headed decision.

It’s not like she’s going to _do_ anything to or with this outlandishly handsome, roaring drunk man with whom she is hopelessly besotted. Sansa’s nose wrinkles at the mere suggestion of such a thing. Jon can play with her hair all he likes — he does that when he’s dead sober, too — but that’s as far as things are going tonight.

They’ll see what happens in the morning.

But Sansa shakes that thought from her head. No sense in getting her hopes up.

Hopped up on a disproportionate blood/alcohol level as he is, even still Jon senses her sudden shift in mood. He frowns slightly as he follows her, stumbling, into her flat.

“Sansa, what’s wrong?”

_I’m bloody well in love with you and you only flirt with me when you’re smashed._

Or, at least, he only _blatantly_ flirts with her when he’s smashed. Sansa thinks there might be something to the way he runs his fingers through her hair when he’s had nothing to drink but coffee, maybe something to that soft smile or the way he drops a kiss to her temple whenever he says hello.

But none of that is appropriate to talk about right now.

So Sansa gives him a smile, a little tight, a little forced, but it’s… Well, it’s fine.

“Nothing, I’m alright,” she assures him. She drops her keys on the counter. “Where’d you like to sleep, love? Couch is always free, but  
you can have my bed if — what?”

Jon had stopped in his tracks in the little corridor next to the kitchen, right behind her. He’s looking at her with that soft smile, but it’s that dopey sort of soft smile that must be a product of too many cheap beers. His head is tilted slightly, curls bouncing when it tilts the other way, gaze never breaking from her face, as if he’s studying her.

“What?” Sansa repeats, growing more self-conscious with every passing, silent second. “Jon?”

“You called me ‘love.’” He sounds a bit dazed. She wonders if he’s about to pass out, and whether she has time to grab a few pillows to break his fall. “I love it when you do that.”

She’s blushing furiously. She can feel it.

This is no good. No good at all.

Jon is compelled to move when she ushers him down the hall with the promise of a sandwich. He needs to sober up a bit before bed, and Sansa needs a moment to collect herself.

When she slips into her bedroom, plate and bottle of water in hand, she thinks she could use another moment. Jon’s curled in the middle of her mattress, cuddling his face into her favorite pillow and humming contentedly.

“You smell so good,” he says by way of greeting. He flips on his back, bringing her pillow with him so he can inhale deeply. His resultant groan is muffled by the goose feathers. “ _So_ fucking good, Sansa, y’know I think I’m obsessed with you.”

Something wriggles deep in her stomach. She never thought she’d wish it was just indigestion, but that would be far easier to deal with than Jon’s surely exaggerated confessions, so. Here she is.

“That’s very sweet,” Sansa tells him, because it sort of is and, anyway, what else is she supposed to say? She plucks the pillow from his grip and then pulls him up by the collar. “Now, eat.”

Jon’s eyes fall unabashedly to her waistband. He licks his lips. “Alright.”

That something is wriggling more fiercely now, but Sansa tamps it down with a forced laugh.

“ _No_ , love,” and she halts his hands, which had begun to wander, with his sandwich.

“Oh.” He blinks, disappointed, before his eyes flick back to her waistband. “Maybe later, then.”

Sansa’s not convinced he’d meant for her to hear that.

He eats in silence, and Sansa pretends she can’t feel his eyes on her as she straightens up her room. It doesn’t need straightening, mind, she’s unflaggingly neat, but it offers some distraction. Jon seems a bit restless, too. He’s too busy eating to talk, but he taps his foot and clears his throat and a lot of other little sounds that put Sansa on edge.

“You take such good care of me, Sansa,” he slurs when she divests him of the empty plate. He grasps her hips before she can move away. “Who’s — is anybody taking care of you, too?”

He looks nervous. She’s not really sure what she’s supposed to say here, except the truth of it.

“I can take care of myself.” She tries for another smile; it doesn’t shake out so well this time. “You haven’t got to worry about me.”

“I do,” Jon mutters. His thumbs are rubbing circles into her hips now. “I worry ‘bout you all the” — he pauses to take a deep breath — “all the time, Sansa.”

This is too much, surely more than her fragile heart can take. Sansa ruffles an affectionate hand through his curls before gently extracting herself from his hold. She needs to take the plate back to the kitchen, and she needs another moment to… to _get it together_ , for god’s sake, she’s being ridiculous.

She’s only granted about thirty seconds, though, before she hears music coming from her bedroom.

_I’ve been really tryin’, baby  
Tryin’ to hold back this feeling for so long…_

“Oh my god.”

_And if you feel like I feel, baby  
Then c’mon, ooooh, c’mon…_

When she darts back into her room, Jon’s swaying his hips to the beat of her playlist. Her sex playlist (though it’s always been more of a self-love playlist, really, since none of her exes were much for mood music, but that’s not the point right now).

“Jon —” she starts warningly, but he pays no mind but to start fumbling with his belt buckle. His hips are still swaying. “Jon, what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna” — he hiccups — “I’m ‘onna strip for you.”

_He’s going to —??_

Sansa blinks, as if that’s going to help make sense of what’s happening, as if she can’t figure it out herself when it’s happening right in front of her. But, as she watches the admittedly tantalizing — _god, what is wrong with me?_ — back-and-forth of Jon’s hips as he comes closer to her, could anyone blame her, really?

She has to ask, if only to have something to do while he’s drunkenly trying to seduce her, “Excuse me, what?”

“It’s okay, Sansa.” Jon waves her off, then goes back to his belt, not half as concerned about this situation as she is. “It’s gon’ be good.”

“Jon, no —”

“Jon, _yes_.”

“You can’t.”

His face, and his hands, falls. “Why not?”

Right. He’s drunk, which means she’s going to have to offer him an explanation of an all-on-its-own very reasonable thing.

_Oh, oh, oh  
Let’s get it on…_

Sansa shakes her head, trying to clear it even though Jon’s cologne is clogging her senses now too. He’s too close, too drunk, and the music’s too loud, and and and —

“Jon, that’s — we need to turn this off,” Sansa says, only half-aware of her reason at the moment. “It’s too loud, my neighbors —”

“Gonna hear a lot of other noises tonight, too.” He’s grinning when he takes her by the waist.

She smacks his hands away. “Ooh, no, they are not.”

 _“Sansaaaa.”_ Jon pouts. “Come on, let me.”

It’s tempting. So, so tempting. Sansa only wishes he’d beg her like this when he was sober.

“Gods,” she says through a long, steadying inhale, exhale, “you’re so drunk.”

He scoffs. “I can still _do it_ , Sansa, watch —”

She yelps when, suddenly, he’s swept her right off her feet and deposits her on the bed. If she hadn’t been so shocked, she would have gotten up when she had the chance. As it is, Jon’s leaning over her, hands braced on either side of her thighs, and leveling her with a look of the utmost seriousness.

“Now, you just” — another hiccup — “you just sit there and lemme” — and he fumbles again with his belt buckle — “I’m gonna take my clothes off.”

Considering all his fumbling, Jon manages to whip that belt off fairly quickly. Once Sansa can think clearly again, she’ll say she was too caught between surprise and arousal to move just yet.

She’s not sure where Jon learned to move like this, but she suspects it has something to do with the boys watching _Magic Mike_ at Theon’s a couple weekends back. It was Gendry’s idea, as apparently her baby sister likes to throw money at him if he takes his clothes off with a little extra panache.

Jon must have picked up a few pointers himself.

His shirt comes off easily enough, pulled over his head as his hips keep up their rhythm to the song. Sansa’s thighs rub together when he tosses it at her with perhaps the worst wink she’s ever seen, but… _fuck_ , who cares? she thinks as her eyes map the dips of his muscled chest.

The skinny jeans, though, prove to be another matter entirely.

“Oh, fuck —” Jon trips, and falls to the floor with a loud _thump!_ that’s far more likely to disturb her downstairs neighbors than the music had been.

It also snaps Sansa out of whatever trance she’d been under.

“Are you alright?” she asks, rather frantically, as she alights the bed to kneel next to Jon on the floor. His jeans are tangled around his thighs, crumpled at the ankles, and all in all not the most sensible thing to be wearing if he’d wanted to remove them as sensually as he’d attempted. “Did you hit your head?”

Jon sighs. “No. But I’m — very dizzy, so I think I’m gonna — I can get up, Sansa —”

“No.” She runs her hands down his face, around the back of his head, looking for any hurts he might not have noticed in his current state. “Just stay right here a moment.”

“I said I was gonna take my clothes off for you,” he protests. “Sansa, I wanna — wanna take care of you. That was _barely_ a striptease, it was the _worst_ , lemme do it again.”

“Not tonight.” She says it firmly, the way she should have from the start. The way she _had_ , but then she’d been thoroughly distracted, and she’s not going to get away from herself like that again tonight.

She takes Jon’s hands and tugs. “Come on, now, sit up for me, love.”

“Sansa —” He says it thickly, yet roughly all the same, and his hands move to her jaw when suddenly, out of nowhere it seems, his mouth finds hers.

_Oh._

It’s a sloppy thing, this first kiss. Eager. All-encompassing, like Jon’s trying to fit a lifetime of kisses into just this one. He slips his tongue into her mouth and presses his lips harder to hers, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

He’s panting into her mouth as Sansa tries to draw breath, but she can’t _she can’t_. His hands span her back and pull her against him, their legs tangling awkwardly as Jon brings her closer and Sansa clambers over him, mouths fused together, kissing furiously —

“Wait.” She wrenches her lips from his. He whines and tries again, but this she _really can’t_ do. “Stop, Jon, I’m sorry, you’re too drunk, I shouldn’t’ve —”

“I’ll be sober in the morning,” he cuts in, short of breath. His dark gaze locks on hers. “Can I kiss you in the morning?”

_Hell yes, you can._

“If you still want to.”

Jon smiles softly at her, and runs a hand down her cheek. “I’ll want to.”

Sansa swallows. She shouldn't be overthinking this, but tell that to her imagination for all the good it would do (read: none).

She helps Jon to his feet, and looks away as he does up his jeans. She’d watched him strip half his clothes off for her already, and now she thinks she owes him a bit of privacy.

“I gotta… brush my teeth.” Jon swipes a hand across his mouth. “Don’t wanna kiss you with, uh, drunk breath, right? I gotta brush.”

Does he really intend to kiss her ever again? Sansa has to wonder, but then she reminds herself that he likely won’t remember any of this, anyway.

 _Ugh_ , but why has she got to be so macabre about it? Surely that’s not going to do her any favors.

“There’s an extra toothbrush in the cabinet,” she offers. It’s all she can really do right now, tonight. “D’you want me to —”

“Nuh-uh.” Jon shakes his head, then points resolutely to the bed behind her. “I want you in bed. You just, you wait for me right there. I’m — I’ll be right back, lovely, and I’m gonna — I’ll keep my jeans on this time, right, but I wanna give you a cuddle, m’kay?”

Before she can get a word in edgewise, he’s stumbled out towards the bathroom. It’s not a terrible stumble, so he can’t be much worse off now than when she’d picked him up from the pub an hour or so ago.

And what an hour or so it’s been…

Sansa collapses atop her bed with a heavy sigh. She leaves the lamp on for Jon, though one of them really ought to take the couch. At this point she’s too tired to care, really. Besides, she’d told Jon he was too drunk for them to carry on; he won’t try anything else, and neither will she.

Her pillow smells like him now. Sansa buries her face in it, looking for comfort. The scent grows stronger when Jon returns and flops beside her, and she wishes she could bury her face in his hair, his chest, too.

The lamp flicks off, and the mattress shifts as Jon scoots close behind her. He curls an arm around her waist and pulls her back to his front. His contented sigh hits her ear, warm and reassuring, and he squeezes a little tighter.

“Jon…” She attempts to wriggle free — he’s still too soused for this — but he tightens his hold on her in response.

“I’m not that drunk, Sansa,” he promises, though her own insecurities tell her not to be so sure about that. Another warm, happy breath tickles her skin. “Just tired. Lemme hold you. ‘S all I want.”

He nuzzles into her hair, presses a kiss to her shoulder, and Sansa falls asleep thinking that, yes, this is all she wants, too.

 

* * *

 

Jon stirs, sometime around dawn, with quite literally a pain in his arse. He doesn’t know what it is or how it happened, but there’s absolutely a bruise, he can just _tell_.

This is what he gets for agreeing to a ‘lads’ night.’ He doesn’t know whether that was Robb or Theon’s bright idea, but they should all know better than to think they could survive the Five Kings’ half-priced Fridays without proper supervision.

Honestly. Who did they think they were? Reasonable men with any good sense to their names? No. Clearly not, as they’d buggered off on their own for a night, leaving Sansa home alone, and Jon’s wandering mind on her for beer after beer after —

_Wait._

Jon’s eyes snap open to a mass of soft auburn, the lingering scent of fresh laundry and burnt cinnamon candles. His body is warm, wrapped in thick woven blankets and curled around… around Sansa’s… who’s snuggled against his naked chest while his head is nestled in her shoulder.

 _Oh, gods._ Panic settles, even as Jon rubs her lower back and she sighs, so sleepy and sweetly. _What did I do to her last night?_

But no — no, he’d just been berating himself for allowing his mates to call the shots. If Jon had had his way, Sansa never would have left his side (last night or ever again, but the latter isn’t something he’s quite prepared to deal with at the moment).

No. Sansa hadn’t come out with them this time. She’d been sober, their designated driver. Absolutely they hadn’t gotten drunkenly carried away and done something stupid.

Not that sleeping with Sansa would be something stupid. Jon would just be soundly pissed if he couldn’t remember it.

Sansa stirs now, too, eyelashes fluttering in such a way that would make Jon’s knees go weak, if only he were standing. Her eyes are bright as she blinks the sleep out of them. His throat goes dry.

_Damn it, she’s always so pretty._

It’s this, perhaps, that makes Jon lose his head a bit, and instead of saying something dashing or at least normal, he blurts, “What did I do?”

Sansa chuckles, soft and a little rough from sleep. “Tried to take your trousers off and kissed me full on the mouth.”

“I —” Jon closes his eyes against the wave of mortification that hits. “Ah, fuck.”

So he _had_ gotten drunkenly carried away and done something stupid — several _something-stupid_ ’s, by the sounds of it, and likely there were several more that Sansa’s too kind to tell him about — all on his own.

Kissing Sansa wasn’t stupid. That was actually one of his better ideas. But now he really _is_ soundly pissed at himself, because he can’t remember it.

He licks his lips, as if that will help to jog his terribly hungover memory. They’re dry and… vaguely minty? He licks them again, and thinks he’d prefer it if they tasted like Sansa’s lip balm.

He opens his eyes, brow wrinkled in confusion. “Did I brush my teeth?”

“Ah — right.” She’s blushing now. It’s pretty, as everything she does, only Jon doesn’t know what she’s got to blush about. “Um, yeah, you did. After I told you you were too drunk to be kissing me, and you said you’d be sober in the morning, so —”

“So I brushed my teeth to make sure I was ready to kiss you again.”

Yeah, _that_ he remembers. The humiliating part. Now all the humiliating parts are coming back to him in somewhat foggy bits and pieces, but clear enough to make him wish for nothing more than to crawl under the floorboards, never to resurface. He’d propositioned her and stripped for her and he’d kissed her like the sloppy, overeager dog he was.

And, yes, _fine_ , so he’d wanted to do all those things for ages now. But he’d wanted to be a tad more smooth about it all.

Well, at least he knows why his arse hurts so much now. Stupid prick that he is, he actually thought he could dance his way out of his skinny jeans.

“Sansa, I am so, so sorry,” he begins earnestly. _I can do better, I want to do better than that._ “I —”

“For which part?” she wants to know. Her voice is quiet, fingertips gentle as they skim over his heartbeat. “Sorry for kissing me, or for being too drunk to keep at it?”

He blinks. Hope swells in his chest (or maybe it’s heartburn, but Jon’s too giddy to give that possibility much credence. He’ll kiss her right through the heartburn, god damn it).

“Do you — do you want me to kiss you?”

She’s still blushing. “If you want to.”

“Even though you had to watch me bodily injure myself trying to get out of my jeans?”

Sansa chuckles again, as Jon’s fingers start up a light caress over her jaw.

“It was endearing, really.”

He grins, eyes falling to her own smile as he closes the space between them. “Oh, was it, now?”

“Mhmm,” she agrees, and Jon catches the sound on his tongue.

He recalls enough of last night to realize how frenzied he’d kissed her, so this morning he takes it slow and easy. His hands keep up a steady caress as they explore her body, and Sansa’s follow suit. He moans into her mouth as she touches him, her hands so soft against his harder, rougher skin; and he swallows her sighs as she responds to him, as her body presses closer until all of her curves fit to all of his.

This is much better, he thinks as he runs a hand through her hair, than a drunken snog on the floor.

They go on like that for the better part of an hour, before Jon needs to hydrate. Last night’s water bottle had only done him so much good. Human biology truly is a cockblock.

He downs two glasses from the kitchen tap, and is on his third when he hears music floating down the short corridor that leads to Sansa’s bedroom.

_I’ve been really tryin’, baby  
Tryin’ to hold back this feeling for so long…_

Jon grins. “Oh my god.”

_And if you feel like I feel, baby  
Then c’mon, ooooh, c’mon…_

He leaves his half-glass of water forgotten on the counter, and stumbles back to the bedroom not in drunkenness, but stone-cold-sober eagerness.

Sansa is off the bed and swaying her hips to the beat. She’s toying with the hem of her sleep jumper when he skids into the doorway.

“Bit difficult for you to get those jeans off with any rhythm,” she says conversationally, meanwhile Jon’s on the verge of some sort of attack, no doubt. Her shirt inches up, agonizingly slow, revealing the waistband of her leggings. “But mine aren’t so bad.”

“Uh-huh.” Jon’s licking his lips again. This time, they taste like Sansa’s lip balm.

“And then I thought…” Her shirt comes off, and Jon’s pulse goes wild. Sansa smirks. “Well, then I thought I could help you out of those skinny jeans. Reckon you just need an extra pair of hands, hm?”

Jon nods vigorously. “Yes, ma’am,” he agrees.

And then, amidst her surprised peal of laughter, he gathers her up into his arms before he tackles the pair of them back onto the bed.

_Oh, oh, oh  
Let’s get it on…_


End file.
